


The Fondue Never Lies

by FhimeChan



Series: Spring Prompts 2k18 [4]
Category: De grønne slagtere | The Green Butchers (2003), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Cheese shop AU, First Kiss, Franklin is a sweetheart, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hannibal is smitten, M/M, Murders and Cannibalism, Svend is rude, Tyromancy, Will is annoyed by how much he likes that pretentious butcher, aka divination via cheese, crack and fluff, if you’re looking for something serious change fic, it’s like a coffee shop but they also serve cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan
Summary: Written for the prompt "What if Hannibal and Svend had competing butcher shops and Franklyn had a cheese shop in between?"And… What if Will were a Detective?





	The Fondue Never Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannibalsimago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/gifts).



> It's still spring, right?  
> Sorry for the terrible delay. I rewrote many times, it took a while.  
> Hannibalsimago deserves the best, but has to settle for me! Thank you for being always, always, always kind and encouraging. 
> 
> Betaed by @j9-j9, a benevolent and resolute human being. Thank you!

The butcher knife carved the meat with precision, clicking against the ceramic counter in time with Hannibal’s heartbeat. Beside him a plate filled with the delicate slices, arranged in waves for a tartare. 

The door thumped loudly against the wall and a man stumbled into the shop. 

It broke Hannibal’s rhythm. He could easily regain it with a knife to the intruder’s sweaty neck; he could cut layers after layers of cutaneous fat in time with the faltering heartbeat. 

Franklin said, “Hannibal! Today my fondue caught on fire!”

A blink was enough to come back to reality. It was only Franklin. 

“Keep the fire low, mix-”

Franklin cut him off. “No, I mean, my tyromancy fondue caught…fire…” He trailed off, maybe noticing his own rudeness.

Hannibal had strict rules about his murders. No fingerprints, no attracting unwanted attention towards his activity. He was holding the knife bare-handed and Franklin owned the adjacent cheese shop. 

He let the silence stretch. 

After many seconds of embarrassed shuffling of feet, Hannibal said. “What are you trying to tell me, Franklin?”

He perked up at the opportunity to explain. He was so easy to manipulate. “I was asking the cheese how my week would go, and when I asked it if one of us would find a boyfrie… someone to tal…” He bit his lips. Hannibal considered the best way to serve them. Maybe raw, a straightforward preparation for a man who always stumbled. “An... another acquaintance!” He waved his arms frantically. “The cheese caught fire!” His eyes widened as if he was still witnessing the event. 

“I fail to understand, Franklin.” Usually, that line was enough to close a conversation. 

Not with Franklin. 

“It means you or I will meet someone this week!” Franklin beamed at him. “Or maybe we both will!”

Hannibal thought, _ fingerprints _ , and smiled, close-lipped. “I meet many people everyday.” Franklin deflated. The downturn of his lips somehow sucked the desire to eat them out of Hannibal. He added, “But I’ll tell you if someone unusual walks in.” 

Yes, so easy. Franklin beamed, almost jumping on the spot. “Wait and see, the fondue never lies!” 

Another wave of disruptive noise rolled over Hannibal’s elegant shop.

Franklin flinched, then moved aside the red brocade curtain which shielded Hannibal from the passerby. A van stood in the parking lot reserved for their shop’s clients. Rude.

Franklin flexed his neck almost to the breaking point, partially disappearing behind the fabric. Then he shivered, and ran out of the door. 

Hannibal relaxed his grip on the knife, deciding the angle of the next cut, relishing the give of the muscle…

The door slammed again and Hannibal severed an excessive portion of meat. He stabbed the piece while Franklin bounced excitedly. 

“The van driver told me we have a new neighbour! And he’s a butcher, just like you!! He’s bought the shop just beside mine!” 

And he ran off again. 

Hannibal unknotted his muscles, starting from his clenched jaw and descending until his fingers lost their tension. 

_ Fingerprints, no unwanted attention.  _

* * *

One week later, Hannibal was at the grand opening of the new shop with Franklin. 

More precisely, he was standing on the street in front of a shuttered window. He had been waiting  for two hours and three minutes past the announced time, still not long enough to catalogue the obscene graffiti on the walls. It was barely acceptable when the shop was empty; now it was outrageous. 

Franklin had not stopped chatting for one moment. “...and after I added a bit of lemon, the cheese melted which was good because it covered the small holes in the pan to…”

Hannibal tuned him out, letting his gaze pass over the dozen people waiting. Many had gone away after the first hour, but the small crowd had attracted a few meddlers. The lady who owned a grocery store was chatting with a few customers, while the fishmonger had brought his kids who had improvised a football match with other teenagers.

Not one of Hannibal’s usual customers had come, to his satisfaction. Of course, the gap between the two shops could not…

Someone bumped into Hannibal’s shoulder. 

“You should keep to the sidewalk, not stay in the middle of the street.”

Low voice, male. Not young, not old. Probably approximately his height, since he had spoken close to his ear. Hannibal considered turning, pressing his palm to his nose and pushing upwards. He would have to kill every witness, running kids included.

He took a deep breath. “May I have your business card, Mr…”

The man continued walking. A too wide forehead and an unfortunate haircut could do nothing to mask cutting cheekbones and a familiar angular face. 

The striking resemblance with his own reflection in the mirror stalled Hannibal long enough for the rude pig to reach the new shop. He fumbled with the key. 

The new butcher. Too close to be killed.

Hannibal considered an exception to his rules as he followed the crowd into the shop. 

It was dark and dusty, with a big counter taking almost all the space. The only source of light was a lamp hanging from a wire, because the windows were obscured by two large cardboard boxes. The kids pushed to the front, aiming for a plate labelled as “welcoming canape”. Hannibal regarded the limp pastries with barely conceived horror. 

Only in that moment he realized that Franklin had stopped talking. 

He turned. Franklin’s eyes were wide and stunned, almost glittering as they fixed onto the form beyond the counter. 

Hannibal blinked, and then blinked again. 

The new butcher disappeared in the back room, which seemed to wake Franklin up. 

“I… I can’t… I should.... Empty handed… Sorry!” 

He ran out of the door. 

Hannibal decided it was time to go, too. He gave one last look at the smudged glass in front of the meat, then at the room; another man had joined the customers.

The light from the door fell on him sideways, highlighting the contrast between black curls, white skin and vibrant blue eyes. He wore baggy clothes, made of expensive flannel. Probably trying to appear unremarkable, and fooling anyone but Hannibal. 

Light on his feet, he stepped closer to the owner, who had come back with some passable saltimbocca. He popped one in his mouth, humming. “I would kill to eat this everyday, wouldn’t you?”

The owner’s eyes widened, he stammered and and hit the plate with his elbow. The meat scattered on the floor and the customers jumped back. One of the kid’s tried to pick one up, but his father swatted his hand. 

A piece landed beside Hannibal’s leather shoe. The smell was familiar. Intriguingly familiar. 

The newcomer crouched on the floor, collecting the small cuts of meat onto a napkin. He met the owner’s eyes while he pocketed it and rose.

“All cleaned up, no harm done. Finger foods have a habit of running away.”

The owner did not answer, a layer of sweat formed on his forehead. He flinched when the man leaned on the counter. “Svend, right?” He slipped a police badge out of his pocket. Hannibal, face carefully blank, treasured Svend’s resulting shudder. The man’s tone was a perfect balance of friendly and confident. “Detective Will Graham, on leave.”

Will waited for a reply, long enough for the silence to become noticeable. With a carefully constructed smile and a glint in his eyes, he retrieved his badge and supplied a business card in its place. “If you need any help, feel free to call me. Have a lovely grand opening.”

Hannibal wanted more time with that man. 

Franklin was approaching the door from the outside, holding a tray with a selection of cheeses. An opportunity.    
Hannibal caught Will’s eyes and purposefully bumped into Franklin. Pieces of cheese flew into the air, some fell on Will’s flannel shirt. Feigning shock, and knowing Will would not believe him, Hannibal said, “I’m terribly sorry, Detective. Please allow me to amend my mistake. If you would follow me to my shop, I will help clean your shirt.”

Will brushed his hands over a particularly greasy spot of cheese, testing its resistance. In the outside light his eyes were grey. Hannibal wanted to catalogue all the possible shades. 

Under Will’s probing fingers, the piece of cheese fell to the floor. “Don’t worry, that’s not the worst I got on my clothes this week. Bye.”

He threw one last amused glance at Hannibal, whose heart skipped a beat. He followed the detective with his eyes for as long as it was politely possible, but Will did not turn. 

In the meantime, Franklin had reached the counter with the remaining cheeses and a nervous smile on his face. He was in the way of Hannibal and the business card.

“Hello, do you want to try some cheese?”

Svend, who had been staring out of the door and wringing his hands, came back to the present. 

Franklin took the blank look as encouragement. “You- You see, this is from France, a kind, a type of cheese seasoned with pepper, see? It can, can go well with your-”

Svend’s hands stopped shaking and he cut Franklin off. “Brie Au Poivre. If you bring me a gift, you should at least pronounce it correctly. Who the hell are you?”

Franklin’s anxiety spiked, an acrid smell overpowering the cheese, meat and dust. Hannibal considered that if he had to kill Svend for it, Will would come back with no need for his number. 

“Franklin. I… Uh. Sorry. Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

“Why do you come here insulting me in my- What?” Svend registered the words only after speaking. Rude. Hannibal stepped towards the counter, considering the best way to reach Svend’s neck. “Sorry?”

Hannibal stopped. Franklin blushed furiously. “Yes, I’m… I’m sorry.” Looking at his hands, he spoke more quickly. “You see, I really like cheese, and I’d always call it with its proper name, but I don’t want to make people feel inferior, because you know, sometimes knowledge is intimidating.”

Svend puffed out his chest. “Yes, but you should never let your feelings get in the way of precision. How can people understand what you’re saying if you don’t speak precisely what you’re thinking?”

Franklin nodded, “I know, I’m seeing a therapist to learn how to speak my mind... I bet you don’t have that problem.”

Svend tilted his chin to the left in incredulity, saying, “No, I don’t.” Hannibal struggled to contain his expression, which was a sign that it was time to get out, regardless of the card. 

Svend’s voice still reached him as he walked away. “It’s good you want to improve yourself. In the future please remember to call the Brie by its proper name. It’s pretty good, even if it would be better with some fruits.”

“Oh, then you can come to my shop this afternoon…”

Hannibal went out of hearing range, fortunately. He could not murder two people personally linked to him. 

Still, Will was too interesting not to bend his rules. 

* * *

Hannibal, elbow deep in the Claw Killer, complimented his own foresight. He had destroyed the official records of their therapy sessions a long time ago; he could just leave the corpse in front of his shop and nobody would link him to the victim. 

Except, maybe, Will. It was a risk, but Hannibal looked forward to the Detective’s reaction. Not being able to predict it was an unusual thrill. 

He cut half of the liver, then dropped the body unceremoniously in the middle of the street. No need to be refined, he did not want it to be recognized as his work. 

Walking back inside his own shop to get rid of the blood, Hannibal did not notice the person watching him from a remote corner of the road.

Will was fuming.

After Hannibal left, he cut off another bit of liver and headed home.

* * *

Even if he was tempted to spend the night in the shop in case Will discovered the body quickly, Hannibal went back home and arrived at his usual time, just before 8. 

Thankfully Will was not there yet. The police asked for some general information before letting him pass, assuring him they would not stand in front of his shop longer than necessary. Hannibal kept the heavy curtains open as he cleaned the shop; he did not want to focus on cutting the meat and miss the agent’s arrival. 

Half an hour later, he glimpsed at someone moving with purpose through the crowd of agents and passerbys. He turned and there Will was, curls lovely in their morning disarray, avoiding the policemen to march directly to Hannibal’s shop.

The thrill of anticipation was almost completely absent in Hannibal’s features when Will crossed the threshold, vibrating with rage. 

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter, 48, Lithuanian. Medical school, psychology, now butcher. I wonder how a man with such control over his life could let a murder happen on his doorstep.”

Threatening stance in the middle of Hannibal’s shop. Prussian blue eyes. Delightfully unexpected words. 

Hannibal’s pretense of indifference kept. “How can I help you, Detective Graham?”

“Not messing with other people’s business would be a great start,  _ Doctor Lecter _ .” 

A shiver ran down Hannibal’s spine. Does Will know? How could he?

“I can’t possibly be deemed responsible for the corpse on my front door, Detective.” Will snorted, somewhat derisively. Hannibal pushed, wanting a definitive answer. “Only for the ones in my refrigerator. Do you want to try some fresh liver?”

Will’s face twitched, covering amusement, outrage and annoyance, before Will regained control. Fascinating. Will settled for studied indifference.

“Why not? I can’t hurt  _ him  _ anymore... Pardon, I meant ‘it’, the meat.”

Hannibal’s heart stopped, even if his body carried on unconcerned, plating a single piece of the man’s liver and offering it to Will. He knew. 

Hannibal’s eyes were glued to Will’s mouth as he opened his lips, slowly chewed, and swallowed. His gaze met the agent’s eyes, somewhere between mocking and glaring. Will’s eyes had no limbus, the blue iris invaded the white sclera. Maybe that was why annoyance and amusement blurred in him.

As quick as he had come, Will turned on his feet and left. 

Hannibal planned his eventual escape, pulling out of his mind palace the location of his fake passport and the list of houses and cars he had available. 

He was tempted to just walk out and murder a policeman to have Will back.

* * *

The intrusive thoughts about the Detective stayed even when the police left. They threatened Hannibal’s concentration as he greeted his clients, prodded at his knife while he prepared the smaller cuts, and jumped at the front of his mind when he sat in Franklin’s shop. 

As usual, Franklin had laid out his delicate cutlery on the antique white tables, arranging it between delicate flowers and ornamental candles. Since he had the uncanny ability to figure out anyone’s favourite tea, he had convinced the whole neighbourhood to spend tea time in his shop. Even if attending meant listening to Franklin’s chatter, Hannibal conceded that the rare teas, assorted dried fruits and selection of interesting cheeses resulted in a nice afternoon. 

Today, though, Franklin was silent. He still greeted Hannibal with warmth, but he did not fuss with his tea and kept glancing at the door. 

Hannibal suspected the reason, but did not like it. 

Even in anger, Will had been polite, unlike some new butcher. Hannibal put the teacup down with a loud click, catching the greengrocer’s attention. He nodded at the woman, gallantly rising to greet her. Politeness. It was not so difficult. 

She winked at him. “Don’t worry about the new butcher, you two have completely different client bases. There’s enough people for both of you!”

Hannibal’s smile froze. He made his excuses and went to the central table to gather some fruits and recompose his facade. 

Calmer, he approached his seat, but Svend slammed the door open and hit him. A couple of almonds fell to the floor. 

Blushing, Franklin ducked to collect them, and arranged them in a floral shape on Hannibal’s tray. This was standard Franklin behaviour.

What was unusual was that Franklin had not looked at Hannibal. Instead, his eyes were glued to Svend. 

“Hello, I mean, good even... afternoon! How are you, you doing?”

Hannibal could pick up a napkin, use it to protect his hand while he broke the glass door, collect a shard and stick it in their jugulars. But some of the blood would fly over the Camembert, which would be an irreparable waste. 

He sat stiffly, while the silence between Svend and Franklin stretched. 

Svend said, “...fine.” Shuffling of feet. “Thank you.” Franklin’s happiness mixed with the tea’s sweet aroma. “A shop owner should always greet his customers with the appropriate time of day, not stumbling and…”

Hannibal went to his mind palace. 

He sat in silence in the foyer. The police had not arrested him; it was reasonable to assume Will had not shared his knowledge. But maybe they had not wanted to do it during working hours, in a shop full of knives. 

Hannibal hurried back to Franklin’s cheese shop as he realized that the best moment for arresting him was now, when he held nothing but a spoon. He tensed and waited. 

And waited. 

Half an hour later, Svend had gifted a starry eyed Franklin his best steak, while Franklin had found the correct combination of cheese, dried fruit and tea to unlock Svend’s praises.

Will had not come.

* * *

After a sleepless night on his armchair, with a knife in his hand and an escape bag at his feet, Hannibal reached two conclusions. First, he could not figure out how Will could have known of his murders; challenging him without knowing his resources would be unwise. Second, desperate measures were called for.

The morning after, Hannibal stepped into Svend’s shop. 

No handprints on the glass, no dust, proper curtains. Hannibal recognized them as Franklin’s. 

Svend was glaring. Before he could speak, and speak rudely, Hannibal said, “Good morning. Do you still have Detective Graham’s business card?”

Svend dropped the chicken breast he was cutting. “No. Get out of my shop.”

Hannibal closed his eyes. He did not know enough about Will’s sources to smother Svend under a pile of barely acceptable chicken meat. He tried again, “I fear a thief took something from my kitchen, I’d really like to-”

Svend yelled. “Lies, you’re only a liar!” Gesturing with his blood-dripping knife, he moved past the counter and towards Hannibal.

Unacceptable. Instead of catching the knife in mid-air and digging Svend’s ribs out with it, Hannibal smiled. “True. I know who committed the first murder.” Predictably, Svend paled. “If I can’t contact the Detective, I’ll call the police.”

Svend adjusted his hold on the blade, preparing to strike. Hannibal stepped towards the door, ready to use Svend’s momentum to send him crashing into it.

Franklin walked into the shop with a cheerful, “Good morning, Svend!” Both Hannibal and Svend turned to him. Franklin grinned. “Doctor Lecter! Oh, I’m so happy you’re here-”

Svend snapped. “Get out! You both!” 

Instead of throwing the knife towards Hannibal, he threw it towards the pantry. It stuck into the wood of the door. Hannibal was unwillingly impressed. 

Franklin’s chin trembled. “But…”

Svend pushed Franklin out, waited for Hannibal to exit and slammed the door. 

* * *

The following day nothing new happened. Hannibal, sipping his tea at Franklin’s, toyed with the idea of killing Svend. Pros, Will. Cons, possibly throwing his carefully constructed life away. He gave himself one more day.

Franklin hovered around the door, sighing. His previous attempt at talking with Hannibal had been half-hearted. His sadness permeated the shop’s air, ruining the cheese’s fragrance.

Hannibal had an idea. 

"Franklin, if I may ask you an unusual question..." Hannibal hesitated. "...how's the fondue?"

“Told me to keep an eye on the shop. Apart from that,” Franklin looked at the floor, "Burning and burning and burning." He retired to the back room. 

Hannibal thought about mankind's peculiar ability to read patterns in small events. Absurd, considering even the laws of physic relied on probability distributions to predict the real world.  

Burning and burning and burning.

Hannibal sighed.

* * *

Another day passed. A total of two days since Detective Graham’s latest appearance. 

Hannibal anonymously called the police. 

“Graham, you’re next.”

Complete nonsense, but maybe enough to lure Will.

* * *

Hannibal had soon noticed Franklin set each table differently. Dandelions for the greengrocer, paper napkins for the fishmonger, porcelain for Hannibal. 

That afternoon, Hannibal’s delicate teacup was in Will’s fingers. He sat in Hannibal’s place, cutting the cheese with a sharp pocket knife, chatting with Franklin.

From outside the shop Hannibal could barely hear his words. 

“Yes, working with the police you start to distrust the knives you’re offered. Thank you, by the way, for letting me, usually people are annoyed and…”

Hannibal, pausing with a hand on the door, scanned the rest of the room and the street. No backup. He entered.

Will stopped talking and  _ glared _ , ignoring anyone else in the shop.

Hannibal grinned. 

He walked to the table, saying, “What a pleasant surprise, Detective Graham.”

Will rolled his eyes, let the knife klunk on the table, and marched straight into Hannibal’s personal space. Surprised, Hannibal stopped breathing.

Will’s hip briefly pressed against his side as he leaned to whisper into his ear, “Attempt it again, and I’ll send the police to your house. I don’t like to be threatened.”

Will’s breath was warm on Hannibal’s neck. Inhaling deeply, he smelled dogs, gunpowder and something inherently Will, confident and dark. Also, rage. 

Hannibal’s smile stretched. He murmured conspiratorially, “You didn’t so far.”

Will stepped back and snarled, “So far.” 

The warmth from their brief contact lingered on his skin. “If you would explain why you keep me in such high regard, it may be easier not to let you down.” Hannibal winked. 

It worked. Will laughed, exasperated. Again, a variety of small expressions passed through his face. The ever-present amusement, more intense than the last time. “You’re something, I’ll give you that.” A familiar huff of annoyance. “Stop messing with me.” Indifference. 

The latter stung.

“I won’t. What’s to be done about it?”

Success. Hannibal’s stomach churned; Will’s returning glare was downright murderous. “Do you think you’re the only one who can-”

The door slammed open and Svend walked in, carrying a block of cheese. Will seemed to remember he had an audience. 

He composed his face to a neutral expression and exited without another word. 

Franklin emerged from the pantry. “What was that?” His eyes widened when he saw the block of cheese. “Parmigiano Reggiano!”

Svend said, “I’m...” He straightened. “I’m sorry.” Franklin blinked, puzzled, then smiled.

“Oh, don’t worry…”

Hannibal was not listening. The point where Will had touched him was cold. 

It sucked the heat out of the whole room.

* * *

That evening, Hannibal’s kitchen felt too big, too empty. He heard Will’s words again and again. 

_ Do you think you’re the only one who can- _

Anger in the strain of Will’s tendons, burning in azure eyes. Willingness to eat human flesh, ease in threatening two murderers. 

Hannibal knew what Will was about to say, and wanted to throw caution to the wind and make another anonymous call. It would be an outrageous loss of control.

"This has to stop," Hannibal said aloud. 

It was easy to prepare a fondue. Hannibal burnt it. Seventeen times.

Halfway through the eighteenth attempt, he remembered. 

Will walking out of the shop. 

Will leaving his pocket knife, which he had touched with his bare hands, on the table. 

Will telling Franklin he used it for everything.

Hannibal left everything scattered over the counter and hurried to Franklin’s shop. 

* * *

Sneaking into the shop was easy, because Franklin had never installed any proper security measures. Hannibal moved silently in the dark, guided by smell alone. Some notes of Will’s scent still lingered in the room. 

Hannibal followed the herbal flavor to the backroom, where Franklin stored tea, cutlery, and any items left behind by customers. 

Moonlight shone through the window onto a bare table. Will’s knife was not there. 

Hannibal did not hear any steps before a cold blade touched his throat. 

He smelled excitation, dogs, puzzlement. “Good evening, Will. A pleasure to meet you here.” The blade scratched his skin as he talked. 

Barely repressed laughter in Will’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, of course.”

A snort. “Yeah, sure. Bonus points for saying that with a knife to your throat.“ The grip did not falter. “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

“For the same reason you hadn’t so far.” Hannibal started to shift towards the blade, “Now, if I may-”

As Hannibal hoped, Will eased the pressure of the knife, but pulled Hannibal’s shoulders back. He was stronger than he looked. “Oh no, Doctor Lecter, you’re not leaving without giving me an explanation.”

“You’re implying you plan to let me go.” Hannibal dipped his head back until it rested on Will’s collarbone, baring his throat. It got a surprised intake of breath out of Will. “You may as well let me look at you while we talk.”

Silence. Will’s deep breath sounded resigned. “Yeah, okay. I plan to let you go, even if you’re...” Hannibal shuffled, brushing his nose against Will’s neck, raising goosebumps. There was another pause, and Will’s tone shifted again towards annoyance. “...you know, I never said I’d let you get away in one piece, you probably don’t need both your...”

A flashlight switched on in the other room, bursting their dark bubble. 

Hannibal shifted until he was shoulder to shoulder with Will, who was ready to lunge. 

The light reached them for a second, then Will snatched the torch and Hannibal pinned the intruder’s arms behind his back. 

“What are you doing, let me-”

Svend faltered when his own flashlight blinded him. 

Will hissed, “Shut up. Tell us what you’re doing here. Few words, well chosen, or else.”

Svend growled in outrage, but Hannibal clicked his tongue and gripped his wrists harder, and he stopped. 

Sagging, Svend said, “I saw someone entering the shop. This is Franklin’s shop and nobody should rob it, so-”

Will snapped. “Okay. Shut up.” 

His eyes, shining in the reflected ray of the flashlight, met Hannibal’s. There was a question there, and Hannibal was ready to say yes, and…

The lights switched on. 

“What are you doing here, guys?”

Franklin stood on the doorstep, blinking sleepily. Hannibal released Svend as if burned. Will jumped back. 

Silence. 

Svend spoke first. “They… I called them to check on the shop!”

Hannibal blinked. Right. Stalking Franklin’s shop was bad; Svend could not admit it.

Franklin beamed, “Oh, thank you! Did you see someone? You know, the fondue had already told me to come here this evening…” He took the kettle, putting it under the tap. “You like orange flavours, right?” 

So naive.

“You. You’re amazing and… and… Your shop is fantastic.”

It was unclear who was more surprised and flustered, Svend, who had spoken, or Franklin. The water overflowed, unnoticed by everyone but Hannibal.

After a long pause, Will said, “Mr. Franklin, Mr. Svend. I gotta go, duty calls. Goodbye. ”

Will’s hand on his back pushed Hannibal out of the room, leaving the incredulous silence and the still overflowing kettle behind. Hannibal suspected they had not heard any of Will’s words.

Franklin had the biggest grin Hannibal had ever seen on him. 

* * *

Under the stars, Will said, “You killed my target. I’ve been stalking him for ages, and you just went and ruined all my hard work.”

Hannibal beamed. 

“Don’t look too pleased, I could still cut your nose, or something.”

“I was in the shop trying to recover your knife, which I suspect would give you much trouble if examined.” He squeezed Will’s shoulder. “You should be more careful with your possessions.”

“Well, you pissed me off enough to make me forget it, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”   
Another small amused sound left Will’s lips. It was new, almost affectionate. Hannibal wondered how many he still had to discover. 

“Wrong answer, try again.”

“Would you join me for dinner at 8 tomorrow?”

A cut off breath. “Seriously?” Hannibal brushed his fingertips along Will’s arm, stopping to take Will’s hand. Will let him. “Were you really trying to pull at my metaphorical pigtails?”

“You still have to explain why you didn't arrest me.”

Will scratched his neck with his free hand. “Well, you murdered a serial killer. Hardly a loss.” A new smell. Embarrassment. Good. 

“It’s a crime, and you're a detective.”

“Okay, well, you were... interesting.” He smacked Hannibal’s chest. “Stop gloating!”

"May I assume that you accept my invitation?” Hannibal squeezed Will’s hand, involuntarily. 

A longer burst of laughter. “Yeah, okay, sure.” Will bumped their shoulders together. “I kept a piece of liver from that guy in case I needed to frame you, want to cook it?”

Hannibal kissed him. 

* * *

One month later, Will and Hannibal sat in Franklin’s shop, looking at Svend hand-feed some figs to Franklin. 

“Sickening,” said Will, not bothering to raise his head from Hannibal’s shoulder. 

“Horrifying,” Hannibal agreed, holding Will’s back so he would not fall from his lap. 

They ate another piece of Franklin’s perfect fondue.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't had enough, there's another version of this prompt just waiting between Hannibalsimago's gifts.  
> Thank you for reading!! ♥  
> Kudos, comments and criticism always appreciated!


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